


Musketeers Whumptober 2020

by CallMeV



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Always Savoy, Angst, Brothers, Comfort, Friendship, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Manhandling, Pain, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Savoy, Torture, War, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:29:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26770684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeV/pseuds/CallMeV
Summary: Aramis centric but the others will get their fair share as well.Day 16: Shoot the hostage
Comments: 34
Kudos: 69
Collections: The Musketeers Whump Collection, Whumptober 2020





	1. Shackled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis is an idiot.

He really should not have done this.  
It had been an idiotic, suicidal idea and he really should have taken someone else with him.  
But when exactly has Aramis been anything else than reckless?

Moreover, there hadn’t been anyone able to accompany him. The King was on a hunt, taking half the regiment with him. D’Artagnan and Athos were on a mission, somewhere in the Gascony – much to the delight of their youngest Musketeer.

And Porthos was still resting in the infirmary, healing from the stab wound he’d occurred on their last mission. 

Aramis liked to believe that this had been his only option if he wanted to find whoever murdered the two maids of the royal family before another would come to harm. They’d been found this morning, throats slit, lying in a pool of their own blood, alone in one of the servants corridors. 

A coin branded with a dagger was found on the ground – it was neither real gold, nor valuable in any other place than in the Court of Miracles. It had come to notice a few months ago that the Court was starting to implement their own currency, which is only logical after they’ve had their own King for quite some time. 

Not daring to wait any longer with finding whoever killed the innocent girls, Aramis found it a good idea to go into the Court of Miracles by himself.

Surprise, surprise: It wasn’t a good idea.

He’d tried to look a little dishevelled, has left his uniform back at the Garrison, but they recognised him nevertheless. With four guns trained at him, after being in the Court for only six minutes, there was not really a fight Aramis could have put up and soon enough he found himself bound to a post in the middle of something barely resembling a market square. His arms had been forced behind his back and around the wooden pillar, his hands touching his elbows where his forearms were bound together tightly, the rope digging painfully into his skin. His ankles were fixed to the pole as well. Another piece of rope had been wrapped around his throat, making it impossible for him to move a single inch or turn his head. 

He was forced to stare at the crowd that has gathered in front of him, shouting insults at him with more fantasy than he would have credited these poor people.

Beside him he felt some movement and then there was someone tugging at his hips. Then, from the corner of his eye he saw the person stepping into the front, holding up his beautifully engraved weapons. Aramis could have cursed himself. Could he get any more stupid? Carrying his fine weapons while trying to be undercover? He now understood Athos’ eye rolls and dry comments towards him. He truly was a reckless idiot.

“These weapons,” the man spoke and waved with he guns towards the crowd, “are unique. And as luck would have it, I happen to know that a Musketeers owns these. So either, this man is a thief or a Musketeer.” He hissed the last word, as if it was an insult. The crowd roared, their shouts becoming even angrier.

Aramis has really fucked up this time.

He tried to find a way out, but he was barely able to move or look around and he was quite certain that behind him stood some habitants of the Court, guns still trained at him.  
He struggled against the ropes nevertheless, feeling them rub against his skin until it started to burn. Aramis heard someone laugh behind him, but no one interfered. He soon noticed why. The ‘guards’ around him stepped a few feet away and soon the crowd started cheering. Just now he noticed that he’d missed most of what had been said and his eyes widened as he saw that the people held stones or pieces of wood. He gulped and tried to turn his face to the side, shield it as much as possible, as the first sticks were thrown. But he only managed to choke himself and was forced to turn his head back. He couldn’t stop his eyes from closing, as more objects flew to him, hitting his body in various parts. The wood would bruise or cut him, but until now nothing has hit him against the head by now and it was all still bearable. 

Until the first stones flew. The first hit him in the stomach, taking away his breath and wanting his body to arch forwards – but he couldn’t. All that was left that he could do was to breath through the pain before more stones hit him. His shins, his ribs, his chest.  
And then, as suddenly as the assault has started it was over. Aramis was left gasping for air, desperately trying to take some weight from his hurting body parts, but found he could not. Still he was glad that no one had hit his head. As the waves of pain ebbed away, he started to wonder what has caused the crowd to stop and he forced his eyes back open.  
And, standing tall and proud, and terrible, terrible angry, was Porthos. Aramis noticed the sight unsteadiness in his friends steps, but was sure that others only saw the fury and the muscles as well as the pauldron, clinging to his shoulder shiny and proud. Behind Porthos stood three recruits, heads held high and chest puffed, even though Aramis noticed the too tight, fear filled grip around their swords.  
Nevertheless it was enough to disperse the crowd. And as Aramis did hear any arguments or any signs of a fight, he guessed that the ‘guards’ have left ass well, not wanting to risk their life’s for something so unimportant.  
Porthos strode forward once the crowd was gone, his brow furrowed as he checked Aramis over.  
“What did you think you are doing? You are an-“  
“Idiot. I know.” Aramis answered, leaving out a dry chuckle.


	2. Collars / Kidnapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Slave traders get their hands on Aramis and d'Artagnan.
> 
> This chapter was written on my phone, late at night, so please excuse mistakes.

"Do you think the others will find us in time?" Worry laced d'Artagnan's voice as he whispered the question, eyes tracking the several guards in the camp.

Aramis shrugged, rattling both of their chains where they were connected to another.  
For neither of them it wasn't the question IF their brothers would find them, just WHEN. They would soon break camp again, being forced to keep on wandering through the woods until they reached their destination. Given that their captors were Spanish, Aramis guessed that they would be brought to the next port right behind the border. But once in strange territory the chances that the Musketeers could save them were direly low.  
They would shrink even more if they were brought on a ship, sent off into an unknown country across the endless ocean. 

Aramis' he's peaked up as d'Artagnan nudged him in the side to get his attention. The Gascon nodded towards a Guard who was currently talking with the Leader, Perez. 

"What are they saying?" d'Artagnan then asked, ears straining even though he did not understand their language. Aramis followed his example, listening closely to the not-so-hushed conversation. 

"We're reaching their first destination today." Aramis translated in a whisper as he tried to understand what else was being said. 

"They already have a well paying customer there... A noble.. He wants.." Aramis furrowed his brow as he tried to make out the words, Perez had his back now turned towards them, making it harder to fully understand him. 

Once Aramis heard the words he gulped, unsure if he should translate them. A glance to the side made him look at big brown puppy like eyes, waiting for more information. 

"And? What does he want? Aramis!" d'Artagnan urged, not understanding why Aramis would hold back any information from him. The marksman sighed in return, deciding that he could not lie to the boy. 

"The Noble wants three new slaves. Male, strong and-" he struggled to keep on going, but d'Artagnan was going restless beside him. Aramis gulped, feeling guilt tingle in his chest. He should have protected the boy better. It was his fault. He was the senior Musketeer at this mission and he should have made sure that the recruit would be safe. Instead they had walked right into a trap. The information they had gathered in the Inn had just been too good to ignore... They should have known that the tell of a farmer living in the outskirts, knowing about the stolen treasures, was a complete lie. But they had wanted to believe it so bad, get answer and get this too exhaustingly long mission to an end. 

"handsome." Aramis then completed, the word spoken so fast that d'Artagnan had to think twice if he'd heard it right. 

"Why would he want a male slave to be handsome?" he wondered, brows furrowed as he thought about it. Oh God, he was too innocent, Aramis thought. He should have protected him better. He was too young, too innocent for this. 

Aramis couldn't bring himself to explain the obvious to the farm boy and decided to just shrug. "I don't know."   
But oh, how did he know. 

Who else could know it better than Aramis? Better than little René, growing up in a big house in a small village, all young and innocent between all these disgusting visitors and desperate women? 

Of course d'Artagnan would not think that far. Sodomoy was a sin and a crime and it would not occur in the sunny, warm gascony with it's little farms and perfect villages. There weren't many bad people, no one who took what he wanted from whomever he wanted. No one who would so openly commit a sin. 

The boy had been shielded from all the bad in his entire life, until some bandits took away the life of his father. And even then, as he lived in Paris, his comrades had always tried to protect him further, to not let him see all the dark figured in the corners and the monsters under the bed. 

Aramis wondered if they should have showed him the real life though. Showed him all the pain and sorrow that was just around the corner, explained him the dangers of the nights in Paris, talked to him about evil men and insidious women. Maybe it would make it easier now. He would understand, would know what would happen to them. 

On the other side, Aramis was glad that he didn't know. That he still thought that the worst that could happen would be to work on a field under the blazing sun. Which truly wasn't too bad for a boy grown up on a farm. 

He did not think that there were worse things that could happen to young men, to boys. Especially if they were good looking, muscular and lean at the same time. Innocent. 

Aramis quivered at the thought. Maybe he would be too old for this noble, too experienced, too cold to his touch. But d'Artagnan wouldn't. D'Artagnan would be perfect and it made Aramis stomach churn. 

They had to get free. He couldn't let the darkness touch his little brother, couldn't let it rob his joy from him. 

But another rattle on his chains gave no other result than the various times before. They would not give in nor buldge. Porthos and Athos would need at least another day of riding hard to reach them.   
Even though he knew it was useless, Aramis tried to free his hands a second time, but this time he pulled too hard, almost choking himself with the collar they'd put around his throat. 

He felt a sting where the metal rubbed against raw skin, causing him to wince. He knew that his ankles and wrists were a mess by now, the blood dried long ago and was now almost black beneath the shackles. But he was used to this. After all he'd been taken prisoner more than once. 

But feeling this burn on his neck was new and the first minutes with the collar he'd almost felt like suffocating. It had taken some time to get used to the heavy weight that pressed down on the place where his neck went over to his shoulders. 

Aramis sighed once he noticed that there was no coming free, just like the last ten times that he'd checked. 

D'Artagnan was now leaning against his shoulder, head laid on it in what must have been an uncomfortable angle. Aramis shifted slighty, trying to make it more comfortable for the boy, before he rested his own head against the stone behind them. His gaze drifted towards the night sky, silently counting the stars while he noticed d'Artagnan's breath to even out until quiet snors left his lips. 

"I'm sorry." Aramis sighed, knowing that it would not be heard. 

TBC...


	3. Forced to their knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis and d'Artagnan reach their destination.

There had been no signs of Porthos or Athos nor of another way of a rescue. The chains around their feet, wrists and necks rattled with each heavy step, rubbing on raw skin and making the long way even more unpleasant.

But Aramis would have preferred to walk like this another hundred kilometre over reaching their destination by noon. Most of the soon-to-be slaves stayed back in the forest with some of the guards. Only six of them, all men under the age of thirty, were forced to walk towards the outstanding estate. 

They were guided inside, through the endless seeming corridors until they reached a small ball room, where they were all huddled inside. At the wall stood a chair, throne-like, even if it wasn’t as pompous as the one of the King, it still was coated in an impressive shimmer of gold. 

“Kneel.” One of the Guards hissed in the same moment d’Artagnan and Aramis were about to take in the noble man sitting on the throne. 

The other prisoners did as they were told, too scared of the consequences if they misbehaved. But the proud musketeers refused. They would not submit that easily. They kept standing, shoulders broad and head held high. Their gazes were fixed on the noble in front of them, a man in his fifties with grey hair and beard, bulky shoulders and muscular arms. 

As the prisoners didn’t react, two guards stepped behind them. Almost simultaneously there was a stroke with a musket against the hollows of their knees. D’Artagnan and Aramis tried not to give in, but their knees buckled nevertheless, sending them roughly to the floor. They had to catch themselves from falling face-first onto the marble ground. Before they could push themselves upright to their knees, there were boots planted onto their backs. Both men grunted in simultaneously as the breath was knocked out of them and their fronts were pressed against the cold ground, arms caught somewhere between their bodies and the marble, the shackles cutting into their skin even deeper.

They tried to struggle free, not wanting to let such a humiliation stay without consequences, but secured as they were, they could not move enough. They heard a low chuckle above them, followed by heavy footsteps and soon enough dark leather boots stood in front of their faces.

“You’ve brought me two stubborn ones. And handsome as well. I am sure I will have some fun with them. Even though-“ The voice stopped and then the man in front of them kneeled down, a rough hand grabbing Aramis’ face and forcing him to look up at the noble. “This one’s a bit old, don’t you think?” The Noble looked up and as Perez spoke in broken french, Aramis noticed that the slave trader stood right behind him.

“I am sure that he will look much younger once he’s shaved.” Perez assured and the Noble nodded in agreement. 

“You’re probably right, Perez. These two will do just good. But the others-“ The Noble sighed. “Take them with you, I don’t want them. I am disappointed that you couldn’t full fill my request of three new slaves.”

Perez mumbled something that sounding like an apology and reassured that he will find more the next time. The Noble though did not seem to disappointed with his two new goods.

Once the other prisoners as well as Perez and his guards left, Aramis and d’Artagnan were left alone with the Noble and his men, boots still planted on their backs. 

“I like feisty ones like you. I enjoy the… challenge of braking you in.” The Noble than said before he left the room. The Musketeers were hauled back to their feet and led through a different door.

“What does he mean, ‘Mis?” D’Artagnan whispered, eyes wide as he tried to make sense of all that has been said inside the ballroom, as they were led into a windowless room with one small cot in the corner. The door was closed behind them with a thud, leaving them in almost complete darkness.

Aramis sighed, gliding down the wall and pulling his knees towards his chest. He could still try to protect d’Artagnan from the worst, try to offer himself first, but he had at least to le the boy know what was in store for them. He could not let him walk in this unknowingly.

“You know how some men have mistresses or visit brothels?” He asked, not sure how to start this.

D’Artagnan nodded slowly until he comprehended that Aramis probably wasn’t able to see him.

“Of course, I do. I’m not a child anymore.”

Aramis’ lips tugged into a sad smile at this, because yes, he was. “Well, some men rather enjoy the company of other men than women.”

“Sodomy?” D’Artagnan asked in shock, just now comprehending to where Aramis was going with his explanation.   
“You mean he- that we are – that he wants us to-“ He gulped, his world taking a 180° twist.  
“I am sure the others will get us out of here before anything can happen.” Aramis then assured, even though he did not quite believe his own words. 

TBC in No. 5


	4. Collapsed building

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Addition to 3x10 "We are the Garrison"
> 
> It's finally time for some d'Artagnan whump! Yey!

“CONSTANCE!”  
D’Artagnan stood in the courtyard, around him hot flickering flames, burning darkening smoke, finding it’s way into it’s lunges. But not Constance. She had to be still in there, in the burning, slowly collapsing building. He gulped and turned around himself, trying to find an entrance and the shortest way where he guessed his wife would be. There. He did not think as he ran towards the door, seemingly the last one without flames licking out of it.   
Once he stepped inside the building the scent of smoke got worse, causing him to cough immediately and his eyes to water.

“Constance?!” He shouted just to be ripped by another coughing fit. He took out his handkerchief, holding it in front of his mouth and nose as he stumbled through the dark building, coming ever closer to the source of the heat. 

“Constance!” He rasped but did not get an answer. He was struggling to breath now, turning around his self as he searched for the way, for his wife, for anything but smoke and fire. But he could not look further than a metre, stuck to walking aimlessly through the corridor. He did not know that Constance had managed to escape through a window only a minute prior and was now lying in the Arms of Porthos, coughing weekly, struggling to get in enough air – but alive and outside. 

A horrid screeching sound was heard above the crackling fire, causing him to look upwards. He reacted on instinct, jumping to the side as the ceiling started to crash down on him. He managed to pull his arms above his head, shielding it as much as possible as wooden beams fell down with a crash. The first hit his legs, causing him to moan in pain as he felt something snap. But he didn’t dare to move as more wood fell. As a part of the ceiling hit his head, he didn’t even feel the pain before he succumbed to the darkness.

“He must be still in there!” Aramis exclaimed, looking around wildly and not seeing d’Artagnan anywhere around. The Gascon had been the first to reach the Garrison, where a terrible explosion had taken place a few minutes prior. The one moment they were sitting together in a tavern, remembering Treville, the next moment their home is burning and falling apart. The right side of the Garrison had already collapsed as they had arrived, the next part of the building following suit as they just could watch with horror, the flames mirroring in their glassy eyes.

Aramis’ stomach churned as another part of the building collapsed, knowing that the chances that d’Artagnan was still alive if he was in there were close to zero. He did not think as he started to run, shouting the Gascon’s name. Somewhere in the back of his mind, far in the distance, he heard Athos call his name, curse his stupidity. But then there footsteps beside him, Athos. Porthos probably had stayed behind with Constance.

Aramis and Athos shot each other a short glance and nodded to each other in encouragement before they stepped into the ruins of the building, flames coming from the sides and slowly finding their way through the crashed remains of the ceiling.

The stumbled through the debris, trying to see through the darkness. A low, pitiful moan was what led them the way. Underneath two heavy beams laid d’Artagnan, barely conscious. They could not see the extent of his injuries as smoke enveloped him. At least the flames hadn’t reached them yet. 

Together, Athos and Aramis lifted the first beam causing the Gascon to scream as his legs were jostled. They did not react to his sobs, as they lifted the second beam. They had to get him out first, then they could look after his injuries. 

Between the two Musketeers they managed to heave d’Artagnan over Aramis’ shoulder. Following Athos’ blindly, Aramis stumbled through the debris with his precious cargo.

As d'Artagnan moaned again in pain, still slung over Aramis shoulder, the marksman gently patted his back. 

"You'll be fit and healthy again in no time, you'll see."

But d'Artagnan, even though his leg spasmed in horrible pain and send a wave of nusea through his body, his lungs burning and his throat dry, had other problems on his mind than his own helath. "C'nstnce?" He slurred, worry clinging around his heart.

"Constance is safe. She's with Porthos." Athos explained gently, hoping that it was enough to calm down the young Musketeer.

"Good." D'Artagnan croaked before he lost consciousness again. It pprobably was for the best.


	5. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: implied rape

They had been two days at the Noble mans estate, learning that he was called Monet. Not much had happened, and even though they were bored to death, Aramis could not have been happier about the boredom. On their first day two men had come in to shave them, Aramis whining even now about how wrong and naked his face felt. D’Artagnan didn’t mind the shave though, having had only a few stubbles.

The Guards then had made sure that both of them were still safely shackled and brought them some food and enough water for a few days.

All in all, they’ve lived through worse. Still, there was this lingering fear, this stomach twisting feeling, the gulp whenever they heard footsteps coming closer. It was only a matter of time until their comfortable stay would turn to an awful experience and they could only hope that it would take some more time until Monet wanted to see them. 

As the door was opened by noon, Aramis had the terrible feeling that the time had finally come. As the metal screeched open, he positioned himself in front of d’Artagnan, trying to shield the younger man as much as possible, even though he knew that he could not truly protect him.  
Two Guards entered the cell with a sickening grin, shooting each other a glance as they showed their rotting teeth.  
“He didn’t say who he wants, did he?” Number one asked as he eyed the prisoners.  
Number Two shrugged, following his companions gaze. “Said he wants a surprise.”

Aramis gulped and felt d’Artagnan being as nervous as he was, twitching behind him nervously.

“Maybe the young one? He likes them young.” One mused, something dark lighting up in his eyes as he scanned d’Artagnan’s feature. As the Guards already took a step forward, Aramis made sure to block their way.

“No!” He exclaimed. He could not let them take d’Artagnan. “Take me. I’m more experienced anyway. It will be more fun.” He stuttered, eyes wide and pleading.  
“No, Aramis. Don’t.” D’Artagnan argued. He could not let Aramis sacrifice himself for him.  
But it was too late. The Guards shared another glance before shrugging their shoulders and gripping Aramis tightly around his arms. 

D’Artagnan followed them, pleading to not take him with them, but was ignored until the metal door fell closed in front of his nose again.

Time seemed to pass too slowly, mocking him as he waited for Aramis’ return. He didn’t want to imagine what would happen to his comrade. Aramis had tried to explain, tried to prepare him for what this sick man was going to do, but d’Artagnan could not take a grip around it.  
He wished they would have taken him instead. Wished Aramis wouldn’t have taken his place. On the other hand, he was somehow relieved. And this again made him feel guilty. Because he should not be allowed to feel relieved when Aramis would have to go through this.

Behind the door and two staircases above, Aramis had been brought into what must have been the masters bedroom. He didn’t even had the chance to try to fight his way out, before his shackles were secured to the bedpost, forcing him to kneel beside the bed. He gulped down the bile that threatened to rise as the Guards then left the room with a laugh and from another door Monet entered.

“Oh, you DO look younger without that gross beard.” Monet explained happily, walking towards Aramis and kneeling in front of him. The Musketeer tried to straighten his shoulders as much as his shackles allowed and held his head high as the Noble mustered his clean shaven face. 

“Let’s see what the rest looks like, shall we?” Monet grinned, his fingers already working on the laces on Aramis shirt. 

“Take your dirty hands off me!” Aramis hissed, trying to get away from the unwanted touch. He managed to get his legs free from beneath him and managed to kick the Noble with both of his shackled feet in the stomach. Monet grunted as he stumbled backwards.

“A feisty one, aren’t you?” Monet grunted before he made a circle around Aramis to come up from behind. Aramis tried to twist free as he felt an arm sling around his throat and another one working on his trousers. He pulled on the shackles hard enough for the bed to screech and move slightly, but the metal just cut deeper into his already burning skin. 

He was almost accepting that he would not get out of this situation as the door suddenly barged open, Athos running into the room. Aramis took the moment of Monet’s confusion to throw his head backwards. He felt something give away and then heard the noble grunt in pain. The grip around his throat was gone, just as the disgusting presence of the man. 

Athos was already surging forwards and ended Monet’s short pathetic struggle with a thud against the head with his main gauche. 

“Alright?” Athos then asked, hands already inspecting the shackles. 

Aramis just nodded, his voice suddenly gone as he comprehend what his friend has just saved him from.  
“I’m fine.” He then found himself say as Athos was kneeling by Monet’s side and searched him for the keys. Grinning slightly, Athos fished them out of a pocket and freed Aramis.

“Your timing was perfect, as always.” Aramis managed to say as Athos helped him to stand up. “Porthos?” He then inquired as both of them rushed through the estate. 

“Cellar. He’s getting d’Artagnan. We’ve managed to get some answers from a forthcoming servant.” Athos explained and lead Aramis outside where four horses as well as Porthos and d’Artagnan already waited. Two Guards laid beside the doors, blood running down their temples.

As Aramis hurriedly mounted up, he felt the concerned gaze of d’Artagnan on him. Aramis looked down himself, just to find his clothes still half opened. He closed the laces fast before shooting his companions a winning smile.

“After this perfectly timed rescue I’m paying the next ales.”


	6. Get it out

He hated collecting taxes.  
It wasn't often that they had to do it as most Comte's had their people well under control and payed their shares reliable.

Unfortunately, every now and then, either a Comte did not want to pay or his people refused to pay taxes for whatever reason.  
This time a Comte from a rather poor region has asked the King for help. He didn't have enough own forces to exact the money, so the Musketeers were supposed to do it instead.

But Aramis hated it. Hated to collect money from people who barely survive, hate to maybe even have to fight these poor folks. Of course they tried to not kill the poor villagers, but some deeds were necessary.

And, of course, the people of Giverny did not give in easily. The year had been a hard and harsh one. First, the long unforgiving winter, then followed by a unnatural hot summer in combination with a drought. They barely had enough food to eat and just could not pay the taxes.  
Unfortunately, the Musketeers could not leave with empty hands.

They had tried to get the Comte to pay for his villagers, but the noble man was as empty handed as his people.

So, the Musketeers had knocked on doors and ordered the people to give what they could. It wasn't much and most people refused to hand out anything.

After a long day, as the small group of ten Musketeers had gathered in an Inn to count what they had gathered, they noticed agitation on the streets outside.

Glancing out of the window, Jacque frowned.  
"I think they are arming themselves."

The Musketeers let out a collective sigh. They really did not look forward to fight those people.

"We should try to stpot them before they get themselves killed." Porthos then answered, earning a nod from most Musketeers.

With Athos at the front of the group, the Musketeers strode outside, where they faced a group of around thirty men, armed with pitchforks, arrows and axes.

Athos' brow furrowed at the sight as he slowly took a step forwards, the Musketeers behind him had their hands placed on their weapons, ready to strike if necessary.

A man, who Aramis thought to remember behind called Marchand, stepped forward as well, his pitchfork raised and pointed at Athos.

The Leutnant raised his arms to show that he meant no harm.

"Messieurs, there is no reason to get violent. We are not here to fight you and you should not give us a reason to defend us. We're here under a direct commend from the Kind and mean you no harm. We just want to collect the taxes that pay for your protection and well being."

Marchand huffed."We have nothing more to give! You've already taken everything from us."  
As if this had been command enough for the villagers, they all pointed their improvised weapons at the Musketeers, the first civilists already creeping closer.

Athos sighed, drawing his sword and main gauche as well.

"We really don't want to harm you. But we will if you force us to." He warned, but his words fell onto deaf ears.

The villagers surged forward, engaging the Musketeers in a fight that would not be ended with words or injuries. They were desperate and they had nothing more to give but their lifes and that, they would give as well.

...

Aramis had disgarded his guns mere minutes into the fight. The streets were to shallow, the two confronting parties too huddled up to aim safely. He was just about to pull his sword out of a stomach, as something whizzed past him and got stuck in the ground beside his right foot.

Aramis frowned at the arrow before his gaze flickered to the windows above them. As his eyes locked on an open window, a young man standing in it and aiming with his bow at the Musketeers, Aramis cursed himself for not reloading his guns. But there hadn't been time then. Instead he gribbed his dagger and threw it at the archer. The same moment the blade left his hand to bury itself in the villager's throat, the man let go of the string on his bow, causing the arrow to fly downwards.

In the same moment the archer as well as Aramis fell to the ground. The first one soundless, dead. The other one screaming in pain as a hot fire erupted in his shoulder. As the injured part hit the ground, he felt stars dance in front of his eyes, suddenly feeling sick as the arrowhead grinded against bones.

Aramis wasn't sure how long he laid there on the ground in agony, too weak to stand up and in too much pain to breath properly, until the sound of the fight subdued.

Then there was a presence beside him, crouching down and frowning down at him with worried eyes.

"Athos." Aramis breathed through gritted tears, his left hand tightly holding onto his right arm as if this would hem the pain. It did not.

"You have to tell us what to do." Athos then said, no need to beat around the bush. Just then Aramis noticed that there were two more men around him, Porthos and Jacques. And with a sickening feeling Aramis remembered that he was their only field medic at this mission.

"Get me inside... A clean surface." He breathed through the pain. And then, after a short nod, he felt hands grip his legs, waist and his good shoulder.

He let out a garbled scream as he was heaved from the ground and carried through the streets. Aramis thought he would pass out or vomit there on the spot, hanging between his comrades with an arrow stuck in his shoulder. But he could not. He knew if he fell unconscious now, his brothers would not know how to correctly deal with this wound. Sewing was the one thing, but getting an arrow out of muscles and flesh without risking that Aramis lost the use of his arm was a quite different and more difficult task.

So he hang onto the pain and consciousness as he was gently placed on a desk. He manged to hold back a scream as his shoulder collided with the sturdy surface.

"And now?" Athos gently asked as he ribbed Aramis' shirt wide open around the wound to get easier access.

Aramis gulped, feeling bile burning in his throat. Not wanting to choke on it, should he not be able to hold it down any longer, he turned his head to the side, facing Athos as well as the stick that stuck in his shoulder. He shivered at the sight. He'd seen his fair share of wound and injuries, has taken off limbs and cared for burns, but seeing it on himself was somehow different and much more sickening.

"Get it out." Aramis ordered, his lips tucking into a faint smile as he saw the open fear in Athos' eyes. The lieutenant was sharing glances with someone behind Aramis, Porthos or Jacques he guessed.

"How?" Athos asked, voice suddenly flat and hoarse as he eyed the offending object with uncertainty.

Aramis licked his dry lips, breathing once more through the pain before he managed to answer. He decided that it was best to tell them everything they had to do at once in case - and it would definitely would be the case - that he lost consciousness during the operation.

"Check if it hit bone. If not, you should be able to push it through. Make sure to cut it as short as possible before you do it, though. If it hit bone indeed, then you have to cut the hole wide enough to be able to pull the head out without ripping any muscles apart. Then clean it thoroughly and stitch it if possible. If not, cauterize it."

It was hard to speak so much, each time he opened his mouth he felt his muscles in his chest and shoulder spasm. Aramis really would have like to pass out now.

"Aramis." Athos got the marksman's attention again. Aramis hadn't even noticed that he'd closed his eyes, but his lids felt heavy as he opened them and glanced at Athos with a blurry vision. "I'm not sure if I can do this." The lieutenant admitted, true fear shining bright in his eyes. He wasn't made for this, Aramis was. And he didn't want to be the one responsible if something went wrong, if Aramis died or lost his arm. 

"Can't we... like wait? Until the doctor from the neighboring village arrives?" It was Porthos, standing behind Aramis' head. 

Aramis was almost ready to agree as he saw the fear in his brothers eyes.

He didn't want to burden them like this. And even though he knew that the arrow would have to be taken out as soon as possible so no infection would set in, he was ready to let them wait, let them give up the responsibility.  
But really not wanting to loose the use in his arm, Aramis couldn't have been more thankful for Jacque in this moment.

The young Musketeer stepped beside Athos.  
"I will do it. I've once eoperated an Axe out of an man's leg. I know it's not the same but we really should not wait."

Aramis gave Jacque a short thankful smile before he nodded.

So, Jacque stepped forward and carefully inspected the wound, felt around it to locate where the arrow hit.

"It hit bone." He then exclaimed, an excusing gaze falling down to Aramis. "This is going to hurt."

"I know." Aramis assured. But he would live. He trusted Jacque and his brothers to keep him alive.

At the first cut, he screamed. The second one he thrashed his head, forcing Porthos to step in and hold him still. The third cut was enough to let him slip into the soft safety of unconsciousness.

Jacque took a steadying breath, thankful that Aramis was keeping still now. After making a fifth cut to ensure that no more muscles would be ripped in the process, he pulled the arrow out.

Aramis awoke suddenly, a silent scream stuck in his throat as he bolted upwards. As fast as he'd awoken, he fell back into Porthos arms in exhaustion, breathing and sweating heavily.

"It's out Aramis. Only cleaning and stitching and then it's over." Porthos assured, allowing the marksman to slip to a painless sleep a second time.


	7. Support

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a battle, the four Musketeers try to get back to the camp.

He stumbled through the field, one hand having a deadly grip around his sword, still ready to fight if need to be, his other was cradled against his chest, the pain shooting through his limb never letting him forget the injury. His walk was slow and his legs heavy as he tried to not fall over the bodies. Blood was still seeping out of the gunshot wound in his arm, his own blood mixing with the one of his enemy's on his shirt. He needed to get back to camp soon, he knew it.  
If not, he would soon bleed out and be just another dead soldier on this field that resembled a cemetery.

But first he had to find his brothers. They never left a battlefield alone, not wanting to return to camp just to find one of them missing. So Athos gaze roamed over the field, searching for someone familiar, someone alive. But it felt like he was walking through the empty streets of Paris by night, hearing and feeling presences but not really seeing them. There was an occasional moan coming from the bodies beneath his feet, but he could not find the strength to help those poor souls. He had only three words running through his mind ever again and krne he would not rest before he found them.

Porthos was the first who came across his way. Beneath a pile of limbs, torsos and a single head, his strong arms moved until the body parts were gone. He'd been close to a canon, Athos remembered suddenly. But he was alive.

Athos found new strength as he darted towards where his brother was buried beneath corpses.

"Porthos!" Athos exclaimed, falling to his knees and helping to get the bodies away from Porthos. Once free, Porthos wrapped Athos into a tight embrace, jostling his arm while doing so. Athos hissed, pulling away slowly. He ignored Porthos' worried glance and instead searched him for injuries. He didn't find anything life threatening, but Porthos' left knee was sickeningly twisted.

"Can you walk?" Athos asked with a frown, already standing again and holding his good hand out for support. Porthos nodded, grabbed the hand and pulled himself upwards with a grunt. But once he put weight on his injured leg, his knee buckled, forcing Athos to take some of the weight.

The Captain huffed a breath at the sudden weight of his brother but tightened his hold nevertheless.

"I've got you. Let's find the others." Athos then said, his good arm slung around Porthos waist, the taller man limping heavily as they started to move.

"D'Artagnan has been by the tree line." Porthos then said. He'd tried to keep up where his brothers moved during the battle, tried to stay close but it often it just wasn't possible. But even though he had lost Athos and Aramis out of his sight, he'd managed to stay close to d'Artagnan all the time.

Their walk towards to the Gascon was slow and painful but somehow they made it. Athos felt more dizzy with each minute passing and just hoped that they would soon be reunited to return to the camp.

D'Artagnan was exactly where Porthos had guessed. He was already back to his feet, thought stumbling heavily, one arm tightly wrapped around his waist. The young Musketeer grinned broadly as he saw his two friends approaching, a heavy weight falling from his chest and making breathing slightly easier. Even though the muscles in his side still screamed at each intake, the knife that was still lodged in there moving every now and then, causing his knees to go weak. But at least he was not bleeding out, he guessed.

"You're alive." D'Artagnan exclaimed once they were in hearing distance. And even thought he meant it jokingly, there still was this twinge of true fear behind the words.

This battle had been worse. They had been badly outnumbered, exhausted from a previous battle and hadn't eaten in a day as their provisions were almost empty. So, even though they'd lost this battle, being alive felt somehow like a win.

"Have you seen Aramis?" Athos then asked, once he'd made sure that d'Artagnan would live until they reached camp. Wordlessly, the Gascon spepped to Porthos other side, supporting him as well, even though it made his own injurie scream louder at him.

"Back at the trenches." d'Artagnan then asked and Porthos could have jumped in joy - only that he could definitely not jump right now. The trenches were close to the camp, so they would not have to walk too far away first.  
Small mercies.

"Then let's go."

Even though it really should not have been called going. Limping, almost falling, stumbling, carrying, everything but not WALKING.

As they finally reached Aramis, the marksman was just barely conscious, having opened his eyes mere minutes before. He frowned at the three figures looming above him, mustering his bloody, throbbing head.

"Does this mean I have to get up now?" His voice was hoarse but answered with a slight chuckle for above.

"I fear so, mon ami. We won't be able to carry you." Porthos answered, nodding with his head at the various injuries the three of them spotted.

Aramis sighed but turned onto his stomach nevertheless. He managed to get his hands and knees below him to push him onto all fours, before his nusea worsened, the world started to spin and he lost the last contents of his stomach.  
Once he was done wretching, he wished to lay down again, but knew he couldn't.

So he forced himself up onto wobbly legs, immediately regretting the movement as the world around him turned and twisted, his head throbjing even harder.

He felt a steadying hand reach out and grab his arm. Somehow, they managed to manouvre Aramis and Porthos into their middle, Athos and d'Artagnan at the sides to not justle their side and arm.

Finally they were back together and between the four of them they somehow managed to tumble back to the camp.


	8. Abandoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis is reminded of Savoy in a bad way.
> 
> Because, apparently, I don't have any self-control and couldn't stop me from another Savoy plot.

Aramis awoke to silence, what was weird. It was never quite in Paris. But then, back in his quarters in Paris, the ground wasn't wet and cold either. He shivered, feeling wet leaves and sticks beneath him. Then he noticed that it wasn't totally quite, there were birds singing in the distance. There weren't many birds in Paris either.

He frowned, forcing his eyes open just for them to fall on tall, towering trees, illuminated only by the few stars and the moon. He shivered again, sitting up straight to take in his surroundings. This though, was a mistake. He grimaced at the pain that shot through his skull, blurring his vision for a few moments. His hands gently prodded at his head just to find it soaked in what must have been a mix of rain and blood.

His clothes were soaked as well, clinging to his body and forcing the coldness to stay. A sickening feeling sunk into his stomach as he noticed that he was alone.

And suddenly everything felt too familiar, to close to the past. The darkness looming over him, the coldness seeping into his bones, the headache and worst... The loneliness. He gasped and forced himself to his feet, even though his head started to pound even worse with the movement.

Aramis felt his breath speed up as he turned around himself, searching for anyone or anything. But he was all alone. On the ground a few feet away he noticed some saddlebags, four in total and recognized them as the ones of himself and his brothers.

"Porthos?!" Aramis shouted, eyes darting around wildly. He did not think about the danger he could get himself into screaming like that. He could only remember glimpses of what had happened, he barely knew that there had been some kind of a fight. But he didn't care if their enemies found him. Everything was better than to stay here, alone.

So he screamed again, for Athos and then for d'Artagnan. But each time he was answered with silence. A broken sob broke through Aramis' fast gaps and he felt how the fear managed to take over him. He wanted to stay clear headed, wanted to think rationally, but he djust could not.  
It was all just too close. Too similar.

Another dry sob left his lips as he stumbled towards the saddlebags. He had to think Cleary. Think Aramis, breathe. He told himself as he kneeled in front of the bags to search them. But nothing was out of order, nothing to tell him what had happened to his brothers.

Maybe they'd just left. Maybe he'd done or said something wrong and they decided to leave him behind. Or maybe he could not protect them. Maybe they laid somewhere in this forest, pale and lifeless. Maybe he hadn't been enough. Again.

Another sob as he stumbled into an unknown direction. He had to find them. Even if they were dead, he could not leave them behind. Could not leave them like they've left him. Maybe they didn't want him to find them, maybe he should have found his end in this forest for real. Ended what should have been done years ago.

His breath sped up, coming out in small puffs and he felt how his chest tightened, allowing no oxygen into his lungs.

"Porthos" Aramis pleaded as he searched, stumbling, confused. Where was he going? Where was he anyways? Close to Paris? He couldn't remember, everything so fuzzy.

"Athos, where are you." he muttered, feeling too weak to call out louder. It felt like a hand squeezing his heart as no answer came.

"Brothers, don't leave me." He pleaded, stumbling over a branch and falling to his knees. His breath hitched as coldness seeped deeper into his bones, wracking his body. He forced himself back upright.

"Marsac?" He then called, suddenly remembering something. Marsac had saved him. He had been there with him. But where was he now?

Something felt odd with the memorie but he could not quite place the feeling. And he could not care.   
He felt so tired and cold, exhaustion turning his limbs heavy and his head close to exploding. 

Marsac couldn't be gone too far. Marsac would not have left him behind. 

...

"Aramis?!" Porthos frowned as he came to a halt in the small clearing they had made camp earlier.  
There saddlebags were still there but Aramis was gone. He hadn't been taken by the bandits like them, the criminals having him thought dead, but dead could not walk away, could they?

"Where is he?" Athos breathed heavily, having just run all their way from the camp of the bandits towards the clearing. They'd managed to escape and secure the mercenaries a little too easily for that they'd been defeated by them in their own camp before. But they'd been asleep, not thinking that they would be attacked in this peaceful area.  
D'Artagnan, even though he was the youngest, came later, cheat moving hebaily under his breaths. He'd made sure that the bandits who were still alive were safely bound to the trees before following them to get to Aramis. 

They'd screamed and shouted at their captors as they'd been taken and their friend had been left behind, motionless, blood running down his face. On the other hand they'd hoped that he could help them escape should they not manage it themselves. But as Aramis had never come, they'd guessed that he was still unconscious or too hurt to come. 

But he wasn't where they'd left them. 

"Spread out. Find him." Athos ordered without a second thought. Aramis had a bad head wound, probably a concussion as well, and maybe he was confused, wandering through the woods aimlessly. 

So they each took a turn into a different direction, all the while shouting for their lost brother. 

... 

Aramis frowned as voices erupted. Had their attackers come back? Or was it Marsac? He wasn't sure. He wanted to grip his weapons but found that they were gone. 

He decided to hide and find out who was making all this noise, causing his head to throb more painfully. He kneeled behind some bushes, still breathing heavily. His knees sunk into the soft, wet ground. But by now he was cold enough to not even feel it anymore. But something felt off. He had the strange feeling that it shouldn't be fall, that there shouldn't be wet leaves below him but snow, icy cold snow that buried the corpses below it, colored in red. His breath hitched as pictures flooded his minds. Pictures long been buried at the back of his mind, trying to forget, but never able to. 

He was confused. This pictures didn't fit in this surrounding but it felt like they should. Where was he? 

He heard another call, now followed by footsteps. And this time it was close enough to hear that it was his name that was called. 

Marsac. It must have been Marsac. Thoughtlessly, Aramis stumbled from his hiding place to where the voices came from. 

"Marsac?!" He answered the call, using trees to stop himself from falling. The steps were faster now until they stopped and a figure in a Musketeer uniform stopped in front of him. He seemed familiar but it wasn't Marsac. Aramis frowned and took a step back at the surprise. 

He searched his head for the name but could not find it.

"Aramis" The Musketeer smiled even though there was worry in his eyes.

Before Aramis could do or say anything, or comprehend the whole situation, the Musketeer called out again. "PORTHOS! ATHOS! I've found him!"

These names... "They're not supposed here." Aramis muttered, shaking his head furiously. This was wrong. They shouldn't be here or they would be dead soon enough.   
"Everyone's dead. They should not be here. Everyone's dead." He repeated, taking more steps backwards as if he could escape the situation like this. His feet got tangled in some branches, causing him to lose his balance. 

But the young Musketeer was there, catching him and lowering to the ground gently.

" Listen Aramis, it's okay. We're safe. You're safe." He urged and placed both of his hands on Aramis' cheek to get him to listen. But Aramis' eyes darted from one place to another, searching or seeing things d'Artagnan did not see. 

"Marsac. Where is he?" Aramis asked, confusing the young man above him.   
The name did not mean anything to d'Artagnan. Fortunately Porthos and Athos were there now too, falling to their knees beside Aramis. 

Fury ran through their veins at the name, remembering that Marsac had left Aramis behind, heavily wounded, freezing and alone with the corpses of his friends. 

But they could not show their fury. Not when Aramis was confused like this, shaking like a leave and eyes wide as his mind was in a world five years ago.

"He's too cold. Get a fire started, Whelp. And get the saddlebags and blankets." Too dumbfoulded by the situation, d'Artagnan just nodded and did a she was told. He could ask questions later. 

Soon, there was a fire warming the air around them, Aramis laid on a few blankets to shield him from the cold ground and stripped to dry clothes. Another blanket was put on top of him and a bandage had wrapped around his head. He hadn't stopped asking for Marsac the whole time, but now that they managed to get some hot tea into him, he slowly seemed to come back to his senses. He still seemed confused, but the panic was gone from his eyes, leaving him exhausted. 

"Where's Marsac?" Aramis asked again. It was the only thing he truly knew. Marsac had been there and had saved him. Aramis wasn't sure where his other comrades where, but he remembered Marsac clearly. 

"Listen Aramis," Porthos started and put a gentle hand on his friends shoulder. "You know us right? Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan."

Aramis nodded, even though the last name seemed strange. He kn it but he could not place the face. Athos and Porthos he knew. They were Musketeers and he could trust them even though they were new to the regiment.

"We're not where you think we are. You've a nasty concussion and mix up between past and present. Marsac is gone. But you are safe. Okay? We will not abandon you, ever. You should sleep now and everything will be better in the morning. And don't forget, that we are here and look after you. You're safe."

Aramis frowned at the words. Marsac was gone? Where did he go? Did the attackers kill him as well? No.. No he KNEW Marsac was still alive. And suddenly there was this image in his head. Marsac leaving him in the snow, half dead. Marsac shedding his cloke and pauldron and leaving.. Deserting. 

Aramis gasped at the sudden memory. "He left me behind. With all those corpses." His eyes darted around, searching. Searching for Marsac's cloke or for his dead brothers. But they weren't there. Just as well as the snow was missing. 

He remembered Porthos' words. //you mix up past and present//. And deep in his gut, Aramis felt that Porthos didn't lie. The images in his head were just that, images and bad memories. Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan were truly there, and he felt safe. 

So he did as he was told and closed his eyes. 

And as Porthos had promised, in the morning everything was better and clearer and Savoy just another bad memory again.


	9. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day, Aramis and d'Artagnan will be the death of Athos. He's sure of it. Until then, they will muck out stables.

Sometimes, Athos wondered why it was always the four of them getting in trouble like this. He didn't hear from other groups of Musketeers getting kidnapped, attacked, robbed or intrigued in some way, that often. Was it because they were the best of them and therefor a liked target?  
He doubted it.  
Maybe they were just really, really bad at what they were doing. But somehow, he doubted it as well.

As he tugged at the ropes that digged into his flesh, his gaze fell onto the two still unconscious figures to his left. And then he knew it.

It was because these two were either a magnet for trouble, searched it themselves or were just self sacrificing, suicidal idiots.

Whatever it was, Athos was sure that it was Aramis' and d'Artagnan's fault that the three of them got captured, beaten and bound.

On the other hand, and he had to give the credit to them, they had also been the ones saving the cousin of the King and his wife, giving Porthos the opportunity to take the nobles away from the ambush and to safety.

Maybe these two were indeed suicidal, troubled searching idiots, but they were damn good Musketeers as well. Which didn't mean that Athos didn't despise the situation they were in right now. Certainly, it was a win that the Nobles were save. But being held by some stupid buggers, that really believed they could get more ransom for three Musketeers than two nobles, // good bluff, Aramis//, wasn't exactly what Athos had planned with his evening.

The swordsman was still pondering over the way they had gotten into this situation. Wondered how Aramis had been able to talk so much nonsense and make it sound so believable, wondered how men could be so dumb and listen to this charming liar. Wondered how d'Artagnan had been able to put up such a good show fight, that the bandits had been distracted enough to let Porthos and the Nobles flee. He wondered how Aramis had again managed to exaggerate a little bit too much and earning a hard hit against his head for his troubles. He wondered how the hell Aramis had thought it was okay to tell the bandits to "Take the three of us. Athos here is a wealthy man and the Kings and First Ministers favorite as well as the Captain of the Musketeers." He guessed, as at least the last thing was indeed the truth, Aramis hadn't lied completely. Still, why had he to be in this? Why couldn't he be the one to save the Nobles instead of Porthos? If Aramis was already lying, he also could have claimed someone else to be the Captain. Why had it to be him?

"No need to look at me that way." 

The sudden voice of Aramis made Athos jump. While staring at his brothers and thinking about all the ways he could punish them once they were back in the Garrison, he had missed how Aramis had woken up and was now grinning at him. 

"No need to be so happy." Athos answered drily, but couldn't hide the hint of relief he felt. He had known that his brothers both had a hard skull, but there was always something that could go wrong with head injuries. At the thought, his gaze flickered to the still unconscious d'Artagnan. 

"He's fine." Aramis assured, who was close enough to inspect the wound. 

Athos nodded. He at least hoped that the following headache would be hard enough for making d'Artagnan think about his stupid actions. Not that it would be enough punishment. He would let these two muck out the stables for months. After the King had praised them for their commitment. Because, if you looked at it from the right angle, they'd done good work. Great work actually. 

Still, Athos couldn't help but to he annoyed that he had to be part of their plan. And concerned. It could have gone wrong and they would be all dead now. 

"It all worked out, didn't it?" Aramis chimed, and Athos guesses that he was a mind reader as well as a suicidal, mission fulfilling, stupid Musketeer.


	10. Trail of blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis is an idiot. Again.
> 
> I think there will never be another plot for me again.

Treville stepped out of his office, draping the thick blue cloak over his shoulder. The halls of the palace were always cold. And so so empty. He despised it.  
He gave a short nod to his secretary before he walked towards the throne room to give the King his report for the day. But as he turned the corner, he frowned.  
The beautiful light marble ground was sprayed with blood. A trail of the dark red liquid leaded from the steps towards the tall doors that seperated the hallway from the throne room.  
A sickening feeling settled in Treville's stomach and his hand reached towards his weapons.  
The only thing keeping him somewhat calm where the Musketeers stationed in front of the doors, calm and alive. He decided that the King and Queen could not be in too much danger then. But still, a trail of blood in the Louvre was always a reason to worry. So he paced towards the doors fastly, nodding at the Guards who opened them obediently for him to step in.

In the throne room were the King and Queen as expected. They sat in their chairs, safe and healthy, even though Treville noticed the worry dancing in the Queens eyes. His gaze then fell on the man standing in front of the monarchs, posture rigid but proud. Still, the man, - no he wore a blue cloak and pauldron - the Musketeer swayed slightly and Treville noticed that the trail of blood ended right where he stood. Beneath the hat the soldier wore, Treville recognized the familiar long hair and now, as he slowly stepped further forward, also saw the blue sash, Aramis always wore around his waist. But now the sash had a dark, almost black spot on the front and Treville's worry increased.

He barely heard the last words of Aramis' report, voice strained and rough as the Musketeer desperately tried to stay conscious.

"So it's of high importance to send a group of soldiers to the Comte's estate."

Louis nodded at this, agreeing with the Musketeer. "Thank you for your service. Now leave."

Treville was thankful that even the King seemed to have noticed the unlucky situation Aramis was in and had dismissed him quickly. Unfortunately, as Aramis bowed, Treville could only watch how the marksman's face went pale while his hand was reaching towards the wound.

And then, just in the moment as Treville stepped to his side, Aramis fell unconsciousness.

Treville grunted as he took all the death weight, but managed keep Aramis mostly upright.

"Someone help me carry him and catch Lemay!" Treville barked, annoyed that none of the Guards had come to help while he struggled to not fall to the ground with Aramis in his arm.

Seconds later a Musketeer was by his side, taking most of the weight off the First Minister and helping him to carry Aramis towards the infirmary.

"My apologies, Your Majesty. I will be right back." Treville remembered to say before he left the throne room, noticing the shocked impression on the Kings face.

Luckily, Lemay was already waiting in the infirmary and went right to work once Aramis had been placed on the bed.

As the Doctor carefully peeled the soaked through sash and shirt away, they found a inflamed Stab wound in Aramis' side.

"Why didn't he let someone take care of it before he went to the Louvre?" Treville asked annoyed and angry at how stupid Aramis could be.

The young Musketeer, Brujon, stepped forward at this as Aramis was in no state to defend himself.

"The Mission was of high importance, Sir. He'd got information about a traitorous Comte who planned an attack against the King. I don't think he could have waited any longer with delivering the message."

Treville's hard face softened at that. He should have known that Aramis had a reason for this suicidal behavior, a quite good excuse actually. He would let it pass. For now.

But not without letting Captain Athos know of it.


	11. Psych 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 11: A Musketeer makes promises. A man breaks them. A hero keeps the information safe.

He'd promised himself that he would not struggle nor cry. That he would not break or spell the information he held.

He'd promised himself to defy all odds and hold out.

But, after days in captivity, held in total darkness, the only light coming in with the men who tortured him day in and day out, without any food and only a few sips of water, he'd already broken his first two promises.

Oh, he'd tried to keep still as they pulled one finger nail after another, and he'd managed so for the first three, but the pain grew worth, and as they washed his bleeding and burning hands in salt water, he'd struggled. Fought against the ropes holding him immobile and tight to the chair. Fought against the pliers at his hands, struggled to get free, to get away form the pain. But it was useless. He coult not move, could not escape. All good that struggling did was to put a satisfied grin at his captors face.

And then, as he was breathing through the pain, willing himself to keep calm, and saw this ugly sneer, he'd pledged to break not another promise. 

But far too soon, he gave in again. He couldn't tell how many days it had been. But he could feel the burn in his muscles from not moving in a long time, felt the ache in his fingers and noticed that there was a thin crust on his nails beds.   
It was then that he heard voices outside. Familiar voices, the sounds of horses and hooves. A bang on the door, questions were asked. He could not quite understand the words, but he would recognize those voices everywhere. His brothers had come. He held his breath, waiting for the fight to erupt, for them to barge in and save him. But nothing came and the door fell shut again. It was then that he tried to shout and scream, get them to notice him. They were SO close! They could not leave him behind. Not when they were already there. If they left now, they would not come back ever again. He shouted and screamed, but the fabric in his mouth stopped all sound and only caused him to swallow his own spit and end in a coughing fit.   
Tears of desperation fell down his face as he heard the horses run away. And with them, his hope of being rescued. 

He'd been so close to breaking then. But then he'd remembered that there was more to this mission than his own life. It didn't matter if he survived or not, what mattered was that the information was save. So he decided, that if he did not break or spill the information, that this would be enough.

A few days, or weeks, who really knew?, later he was chained to the wall, his feet barely reaching the ground, hands high above his head. Every thing arched and throbbed, his stomach has stopped begging for food long ago and his left leg was refusing to carry him any further since a ragged blade had been put in it. The wound must have been infected. And as fever had taken over him them, sweat soaking the rags that once have been his clothes, it drowned him in the darkest part of his mind. Shadows of his past, haunting him whether he was awake or asleep, no way to escape to, nowhere left to go. He begged and cried, tried to look away or tried to fight them, but they came back. Again and again. Reminding him of the people he'd left behind, the ones that died because of him.   
It was then, that he felt something break inside.   
His heart snapped like a stick and he felt how he lost himself in the darkness of his mind. While the fever came and went, the memories, the guilt, stayed. 

It was then that the unbending will to live, to survive, changed to the will to bite his tongue off before he told anything. He just wanted this to be over and he stopped caring if he or his captors were the ones dead in the end. He just wanted it to stop. Wanted the pain to go and wanted the memories to fade. 

He barely registered the rescue until he was out in the open, breathing fresh air, feeling the sun on his skin eventhough it burnt his eyes, heard soft voices murmuring around him. And he was really, really glad for this timed rescue because he had been sure, as he'd seen the knife hovering above his eye, that he would not be able to hold onto his last and most important promise. But thanks to his brothers, he could at least keep the information safe.


	12. Broken Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumping all of them.

"Why did you let him escape?!"

Aramis roared, his footsteps echoing as he paced from one side of the room to the other. Athos and d'Artagnan were sitting at the table, nursing a cup of wine as their eyebrows furrowed in anticipation, their gaze now directed at Porthos, who was leaning against the wall by the fire place.

"Because, I was attacked from behind and I really like having my head attacked to my shoulders."

Porthos hissed in answer, fury lacing his voice like poison. He had his arms crossed above his chest, his eyes cold and brows drawn together in anger.

"I was right behind you! I wouldn't have let them get to you! You know that! And now, now this bastard is on the loose, killing more innocent women."

Aramis was taken aback as Porthos huffed.

"Oh, do I know that? Really? Because last I remember, I've been fighting for four years and you didn't have my back! Not once."

This left Aramis dumbfounded. His eyes went wide as he finally understood where all of Porthos' anger came from. And suddenly his own fury was replaced with pain. He took a step back, almost tripping over the leg of d'Artagnan's chair. D'Artagnan who didn't speak up, who didn't defend Aramis. His gaze fell to Athos, silent and watching, not saying anything in his favour as well. But there was something in his eyes, just like he was agreeing with Porthos.

Aramis gulped.

"I wasn't there. How were I am supposed to have your back?" He stammered, searching for an answer, a solution. Something to fix all of this. But Porthos' eyes only darkened as he pushed himself off the wall.

"Exactly. You weren't there." He strode past Aramis and as Porthos reached the door, he stopped in his movements but did not turn around. Facing the wood, he sighed.  
"And sometimes I wish you wouldn't have come back."

With that, Porthos left, leaving Aramis behind, heart almost shattering in his chest as he didn't find a way to breathe. Aramis gaze stayed fixed on the door for a few more seconds before it slowly, carefully drifted to Athos and d'Artagnan. His brothers. At least he'd thought that. But they've both stayed silent and now the Gascon was avoiding his gaze, looking at the wine as if it wa sthe most interesting thing in the world. Athos instead, met his gaze and Aramis thought to have seen something like worry in it. 

"This can't go on like this any longer." Athos said before he left as well. D'Artagnan then looked between his cup to Aramis and then to the door.   
He shot the marksman a somewhat apologetic look before he hurried out too, leaving Aramis behind, alone. 

The marksman shuddered as the words of his brothers repeated themselves in his mind again and again.  
"You weren't there."   
"I wish you wouldn't have come back."   
"This can't go on like this any longer."   
"We've learnt to live without you." 

And maybe, Aramis mused, maybe Athos was right. And Porthos as well.   
Since the day he'd left the convent and came back to the Musketeers was this tension between him and his comrades. Unspoken words of distrust, anger and pain. And through the weeks and months that went by, it didn't vanish but only seemed to grow stronger. In addition, Aramis had to learn the hard way that his brothers had indeed learnt how to live and fight without him. They didn't need him anymore. 

And now he also knew that they didn't want him there with them neither. 

So, with, oh so uncharacteristically, shaking hands he grabbed the few things he owned and put them into a bag. He had to take a deep breath to stop the tears from falling, as he shouldered the light bag and glanced around the room.   
He tried to think positively about it. They were better off without him, not another burden to carry. And back at the convent he'd been greeted with open arms and big smiles. The children had loved him and enjoyed his company and the brothers were always friendly ans welcoming. Maybe, it was better this way. 

Aramis made his way through the halls, down the staircase and through the courtyard, noticing how each step got heavier and his chest tightened the close he got the gate. He couldn't help from stopping in front of it, giving the garrison a last longing glance. 

And later he would kiss himself for this moment of weakness. But now he cursed as he saw Athos and d'Artagnan emerging from the armory. They walked right to him, calling his name as he wanted to act like he didn't see them and just walk away. 

A hand around his arm stopped him, tightening as he tried to walk away nevertheless. 

"What are you doing?" d'Artagnan asked, concern and confusion obvious in his voice. Aramis huffed, shaking his head as he avoided the eyes of his brothers. 

"Leaving. Athos and Porthos said it themselves. It's better this way. And you did not argue with them either."   
A momentary silence followed as Athos and d'Artagnan tried to comprehend the words. Athos sighed as he finally understood. 

"I didn't mean it like this. I went to talk to Porthos. He's not treating you fairly. We never wanted you to leave." 

"Porthos did." 

"No! No." Their youngest stepped in, shaking his head. "He's... Hurt and angry. You know how he can get. But he didn't mean what he said. We'd talked to him just now. He's brooding but promised to talk to you this evening. I swear, Aramis, we want you here. And we're sorry. Sorry for treating you like we don't."

Aramis gulped, suddenly finding his boots very interesting."And I'm sorry I've left you. I should have come with you as you told me from the war. I should have been by your side." 

This earned a small tuck on Athos' lips and before Aramis could react, he was wrapped in a tight embrace, four arms clinging to him like their lfie depended on it. 

"Just don't leave again." D'Artagnan muttered against his shoulder. "It would break Porthos."


	13. Heat Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yep I skipped the previous one. Shame one me.
> 
> Therefor here's some Athos whump.

The winter had been hard on them. Long and bitterly cold, freezing the grounds and the homeless.   
There had been not enough fire wood for every one and even less food.

The winter had been so long that it only ended a few weeks before summer began. And then, they wished started to wish the winter back.

As coldness had surrounded them, they fled into their houses and to the fireplaces, huddled together beneath thick blankets and dreamt of warmer times. And when the hunger came, they drunk mulled wine hot tea. But as the heatwave ran over France, there was nowhere to hide. The few lucky people with a cellar started to rather live in darkness in exchange for a slightly cooler surrounding. Everyone else, well, everyone else tried to move as little as possible. Woman were waving their fans and swooning one after another, their thick dresses and tight corsets not giving them any chance to withstand the harsh temperatures. Meanwhile, the men dressed down to only their braiers, but only few of them could sit down or find shelter in a cool house. They had to work in their workshops or on the market, had to lift and carry no matter what.

The heat also destroyed their last hopes for a good harvest. What hadn’t frozen to death in winter, was now burning before it could even bloom. And oh, to the hunger came the thirst. The wells were almost empty, the creeks and lakes dried out long ago.

And so, they were desperately searching for water.

While the people of Paris gathered together and rode out of town, searching for any sources that were still filled with the valuable liquid, the soldiers, who weren’t currently guarding the Louvre in fear of a revolt, were digging the old wells deeper and build new ones as well.

They’d discarded their uniforms long ago, their shirts were soaked through with sweat, the heat taking away even the water inside them. But they could not stop digging. No matter how much their muscles arched or hands burnt. They worked restlessly, changing shovels and soldiers on a regular basis.

So, it really was no to Athos as he felt lightheaded on his place inside the dried out well. He ignored the feeling though just as much as he’d ignored the burn in his throat or the growling of his stomach.   
Only a few minutes later he felt a familiar headache form but after all these weeks he’d become used to this as well. It was as the earth beneath his feet started to shift, that he stopped digging for the first time in what felt like hours. His hands throbbed as he grippe the shovel tighter, searching for halt.

The voices beside him were mixing together, a muddled mess in his clouded head. He tried to blink to clear his view, but it did not work. Instead he noticed how the wall of the well tilted to the side, his knees buckling at the sight before darkness enveloped him.


	14. Shoot the hostage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis had been captured, drugged and tortured to such an extent that he could not difference between friend or foe anymore.  
> Athos saves him. One way or the other.

They thought they’d been prepared for everything.

They were armed to their teeth, the horses ready to jump on and flee if necessary. The whole estate was surrounded by soldiers. They’d organized a medic from a nearby village, ready to come to aid any time. A stretcher was there just as well as a wagon.

They’d went through every possible outcome, had a solution for each one.

They were prepared to find Aramis badly injured or even dead, they were prepared to not find him at all. They were even prepared for the unlikely case that Aramis had broken and spilled the information. They were ready if a small army would come rushing at them or only a few men.

But this, this was something none of them had thought of possible.

Aramis coming out of the mansion. Alone.

Well, this wasn’t too bad. They’d been ready for a trap. Weren’t so stupid to just rush in and get Aramis.

What they hadn’t been prepared for was the gun in Aramis’ hand, wavering wildly at the surrounding Musketeers. Even from the distance, Athos noticed the wild look on his brothers bloody face. His hair was damp and clamping to his head, his clothes ripped and dirty. His hands shook as he tried to decide on who to aim.

“Aramis!” Porthos shouted, stepping forward from the small crowd of soldiers. The bulky man had put down his weapon and raised his hands to show the former hostage that he was no threat.

Aramis’ head snapped to where the sound came from, the gun now pointing at Porthos’ head, who gulped at the unfamiliar situation.

“Aramis, you’re safe. It’s over. You can put the weapon down.” Porthos tried, voice calm and soothing. But Aramis did not listen, did not even seem to understand. Though his eyes were fixed on Porthos, they were unseeing.

“Liar!” Aramis accused, his finger twitching over the trigger.

“WAIT!” It was d’Artagnan who now took a step forward as well, standing beside Porthos and giving Aramis two threats to focus on. The confused marksman looked from one to another and back, his breath coming out in harsh gasps.

“Aramis, look! We mean no threat. We are unarmed. We are here to save you. To bring you back home.”

“No, no. You abandoned me. You lied. Everything was a lie.” Aramis whispered as an answer, but he seemed mor uncertain now. Deep wrinkles were drawn on his bruised face as his muddled mind tried to make sense of the situation. Everything his captors had tried to implement in his brain during his captivity collided with the real world now.

The hand holding the gun wavered but it was aimed at d’Artagnan in determination now. “You only try to manipulate me!” Aramis then accused and before d’Artagnan could argue that the captors were the once manipulating him, a shot ripped through the tensed air.

Athos had seen the flicker in Aramis’ eyes, the short change of emotion and twitch of his fingers and he knew. And even though he could have hoped that all the torture and drugs Aramis had had to take over the past weeks would be enough to weaken his aim, Athos could not risk it.

He let out a relieved sigh as Aramis let the gun fall down as he eyed his bleeding arm with open confusion. But he still stood, the wound though it was bleeding wasn’t fatal, it would heal.

Athos wasn’t sure if it was the pain or the shock, but it seemed to calm Aramis somehow. At least he did not find them now as they let the medic examine the wound, clean and bandage it just as well as all his other various injuries. Neither Athos nor Porthos or d’Artagnan really noticed how the other Musketeers now stormed into the estate, freeing all these other poor innocent souls and arrested the men who did this to Aramis.


End file.
